Category: Thursday Thought

“What’s in your wallet?”

So goes the popular ad campaign.  

But I have a different question for you:

“What’s in your heart?”

With Valentine’s Day in the rearview mirror, I’m reminded of Proverbs 4:23:  “Above all, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.”

Puritan John Flavel once claimed, “The keeping and right managing of the heart in every condition is the great business of a Christian’s life.”

Peter Moffett staunchly advocates, “Rather look to the defending of thy heart, than to the defending of thy house.” 

To a culture like ours, the keeping of a heart seems a quaint concept more at home in an episode of Downton Abbey than in any personal life strategy.  But if the heart really is the sole entrance to the inner person, oughtn’t our sensibilities to be awakened?

Consider the close attention we give to the doors of a house.  We give them locks, deadbolts, chains, alarm systems—or some combination of all of those.  We even protect the doors that protect us by coating them with paint or varnish.  

Most of us do far less when it comes to securing our hearts.  We underestimate our hearts’ fragility and susceptibility. At the same time, we overestimate our own innate goodness or ability to sift through or reject unwanted evil. That’s when the trouble begins. 

In his treatise, Guarding Your Heart, Arthur Pink offers a quick litmus test for whether your heart has been compromised.  He writes, “It is in the heart that all backsliding begins.  Observe closely your affections and see whether God or the world is gaining ground in them.  Watch whether you experience increasing profit and pleasure in reading God’s Word, or whether you have to force yourself to it in order to discharge a duty.  Observe the same thing in connection with prayer.”

So I ask again, what’s in your heart?

John Flavel was right: “The keeping and right managing of the heart in every condition is the great business of a Christian’s life.”

Red hearts…dark chocolate…diamond rings: Valentine's Day.

With so many getting engaged on February 14, I could hardly resist sharing the findings of a new report from Atlanta's Emory University.  Titled, A Diamond is Forever—and Other Fairy Tales, the report features a survey of 3,000 once or still-married American couples.

Maybe you've heard the “two-month's-salary rule” that jewelers love to foist on couples.  According to this “rule,” you are supposed to save up (or at least spend) two months of your salary for an engagement ring.

Turns out that little rule has worked well for jewelers.  Not so much for couples.

The Emory University report reveals that couples who spend $2,000 to $4,000 on an engagement ring were 1.3 times likelier to end up divorced than couples who spent $500 to $2,000.  These numbers are troubling, given the 2013 national average.  According to TheKnot.com, the average American couple drops $5,598 on a ring.

Apparently, spending big bucks on a wedding holds similarly disturbing results.  Couples who dropped more than 20 grand on a wedding ceremony face a divorce rate that is three and a half times as high as those who spend between $5,000 and $10,000.  By the way, the national average—according to TheKnot.com—is much higher: $29,858.

Big rings and big parties don't appear to guarantee anything more than big debt.

Rather…dis-HEART-ening, wouldn't you say?

As pricey ring is a thing of beauty.

But for beauty that lasts—and almost guarantees happiness—look for a heart.  Not the dark chocolate kind.  But the heart that Ephesians 4:2 describes when it says, “Be completely humble and gentle.  Be patient, bearing with one another in love.”

If you can find that kind of heart (and I have, in Diana), you've got yourself a real…gem!

I am about to ruffle some feathers. Forgive me.

Here’s the issue: I am personally uncomfortable with our commitment to comfort during church.  More to the point, I have a problem with the emerging assumption that drinking coffee or water during the church service is normal—almost a right.

If worship is what we are supposed to be about—the total investment of our energy in the magnifying of another—then where is there room for satiating our own thirst?  Understand, I’m preaching to myself, too, because I enjoy a bottle of water.

Recently I attended a Sunday morning service where communion was offered “self-service,” rather than the elements being passed out.  Different—but certainly not problematic in itself.  But while I was praying, I heard the unmistakable sound of a large candy box being shaken as two people in the row behind me discussed the weather.  

Our unwillingness to suspend creature comforts—like a cup of coffee, or a bottle of water, or a handful of candy for even one hour I find suspect. If we will not allow our worship to cost us the suspension of personal pleasures for an hour, what price will we pay?

I can hear the voices of some folks who disagree.  They’re saying, “Dude, chill out.  We don’t live in the Old Testament anymore.  This is the age of grace!”  True.

Yet 1 Timothy 6:16 speaks of our God as one “who alone possesses immortality and dwells in unapproachable light, whom no man has seen or can see.”

And I guarantee you that if God were to once again visit Mount Sinai as He did with Moses, you could count on there being smoke and thunder.

Given imagery like that, a cup of Starbucks or a sip of water from a BPA-free plastic bottle seems a bit out of place.

I see the casualness of man and the holiness of God on a collision course.

While we no longer live in the Old Testament, worship itself intrinsically requires a certain personal preparation.  I doubt that a double shot latte is what God had in mind.

It was foolish.  Not even a two-year old would have made the mistake. May I tell you about it?

Trekking along a pathway in the Sonoran Desert's Saguaro National Park, Charlie, Kathy, Diana and I were struck by the landscape.  No other place on the planet has as many Saguaro cacti . Nor was the Saguaro the only cactus around.  There were dozens of varieties.  Deserts, I am learning, offer a strange beauty—and I was determined to capture it all on my Nikon…or die trying.

Convinced I had framed up a pretty cool shot, I asked my wife to smile into the camera.  But peering through the viewfinder, I realized the angle was off.  I needed to move.  The path was too narrow, its range of view too constricting. So I carefully stepped off into the dense (thorny) vegetation.  I moved the camera slowly… and took the shot of my smiling wife.  That’s when I learned a lesson from the teddy bear cholla cactus.

Named for its fuzzy appearance, the teddy bear—or “jumping cholla”—looks like a soft teddy bear, complete with cute little arms.   But take it from me, this is no plush toy.  The thing is covered with slivery spines (not thorns).  Get just close enough and those spines seem to jump off and embed themselves in your skin.

The pain in my leg was intense.  But worse yet was the discovery that each spine had a barbed tip.  So ripping them out was an extra delight.  Having cleared my leg of the evil teddy bear’s spines, I sensed a mild case of the chills.  All this…because I stepped off the path.  

Yet how often have you and I done the same thing, spiritually?  A temptation comes along and it looks as harmless as a teddy bear.  It charmingly bids us take just a step or two off the path of our commitment to Christ—and enjoy a better deal.

Then comes the sting…the barbed tip…the reality that we have sinned—and sinned foolishly.  Proverbs 12:28 assures us, “In the way of righteousness there is life; along that path is immortality.”

I’m learning—sometimes the hard way—it really is best to stay on the path.

Six degrees Fahrenheit.   Walk a mile and a half in that kind of weather and you discover an alternate meaning to the expression, “chill out.”   Though our day began in the windy city of Chicago, it ended in the warmth of Arizona.

Our friends, Charlie and Kathy, were kind enough to host our visit and drive us down to Tucson's Saguaro National Park.  What a contrast to the snow and ice we'd left behind.   Midwesterner that I am, it took a while for me to process that we were driving through an honest-to-goodness desert.   Red rock formations, gray dust and the stereotypical roadside tumbleweed or cactus painted an iconic portrait of southwestern desert life.

All of this I had expected.  But here's what I didn't expect: beauty.   Winding along the Valley View trail (with a wary eye for any of the six species of rattle snakes that slither through the park), we were treated now and then to the most gorgeous flowers.  Atop a random cactus sat a ring of yellow blooms, an unlikely crown for the prickly guard lining the side of the trail.

Deprived of regular rain or shade, these plants dared to bloom in a climate hostile to growth or beauty.   I am learning there are some flowers that can only be grown in the desert.

Perhaps you are trekking through a desert of your own at this very moment.  An emotional desert.  Maybe a spiritual desert.  The truth is, we're all either in the middle of a desert, or soon will be.  Two words of encouragement:

First, we do not walk alone.  I love the reminder of Hebrews 13:5: “For He Himself has said, 'Never will I leave you, never will I forsake you.'” 

Second, it might not feel like it right now, but it's possible—entirely possible—spectacular beauty will soon crown your life.  I don't know how.  I don't know in what form.  I can only tell you that I've seen it before.

So stick to the trail.

Keep on walking.

And dare to bloom.

It was cancer, they said.

Didn't have long to live, they said.

So we began praying for George (not his real name) from my wife's side of the family.   George, age 59, had lived his entire life apart from God.  Some drinks.  Some divorces.  He was irreligious, irreverent and fully cognizant he was in his last weeks of life.

A family member suggested my wife send him a Christmas card.  So she found one that presented the essence of the salvation message, and included our little family newsletter, which also pointed to Christ.

At night—every night—Diana and I prayed urgently for George, that he would have his eyes opened, spiritually, and that he would receive Christ in his last days. It would be a lie to say that I had great faith.  Some faith, sure, but not the kind of faith I should have.

When the call came that George had died, along with it came details for the funeral. A two hour drive into rural Illinois brought us to the funeral home, where a minister made the claim that George was in heaven (“Liberal pastor for sure!” I grumbled to myself, oddly comfortable with my cynicism).

Yet the pastor went on to relate how he had visited George in his home, clearly explained the gospel message, and that both George AND his wife boldly stated their desire to receive Christ.  They prayed together!

Here was a man dangled close enough over Hell, his feet could have smelled of brimstone.  And yet….and yet….God snatched him away. His mercy and goodness and kindness and gentle call pursued this man to the literal midnight hour.

I am dumbfounded.

Forgive my lack of faith, Lord.

Me–who claims to believe–forgive my unbelief.

 

Amazing grace.

How sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like George…

                                                    …And me.

If dogs make you nervous, make no plans to visit the country of Romania.  For whatever reason, the nation is loaded with dogs—stray dogs.  When you go for a walk, or get out of a car, or head to the store, you cannot escape them—scruffy, matted, but usually harmless.

In the capital city of Bucharest alone, there are an estimated 65,000 wild dogs—enough to fill Ford Field in Detroit or the Alamo dome in San Antonio (imagine the sound of their collective barking).

In Romania, 9,760 people were reportedly bitten by the stray dogs last year.  Nationally, experts believe there are some 500,000 stray dogs in Romania.  One stray dog for every 40 people.

If the same dog-to-human ratio were replicated in the U.S., we would have nearly nine million stray dogs trotting around the country.  A population larger than Chicago, Boston, Denver, San Francisco, and Nashville—combined.

The question, of course, is why so many stray dogs?  Our friend, Laura, from Ploesti, told us the most likely explanation is that when Dictator Nicolai Ceausescu bulldozed tens of thousands of homes with nice grassy yards and forced the people to live in tiny apartment buildings, they no longer had room for their dogs.  Rather than destroy these pets, the animals were simply abandoned. Those dogs, of course, multiplied and now we have Rovers roaming Romania in huge numbers.

Dogs are not without mention in Scripture.  They are at times shown as voracious consumers–Ahab's wife, Jezebel, was literally eaten by dogs.   At other times, as in the story of poor Lazarus, they offer comfort—licking our wounds.

In Matthew 7:6 Jesus said, “Do not give what is holy to dogs.”  So while we cannot solve the problem of dogs in Romania, the greater concern for Christ followers is that we develop a spiritual sensitivity that prevents us from offering holy things to people who are as spiritually senseless… as a wild dog.

Call me obsessive compulsive, but I like to celebrate the new.

I remember the distinct smell of new pencils in first grade.  Or the smell of new erasers (“Pink Pearl” was the brand to buy).

Over the years, I've always loved the sheen on a new book cover—and have gone to great lengths to preserve my books.  I want the covers to look new.  Forever.

A particular peeve of my mine is when I loan someone a magazine or book and they bend back the cover on itself.   Or bend page corners as a book mark.

We once bought a new storm door that was installed with its protective plastic shrink wrap.    It looked so nice and the plastic actually seemed to be keeping the door clean, so we (I) decided to leave it on.  A month passed.  A year.  Then another.

When the plastic had grown gray collecting dust and dirt, I was asked (by a very patient wife) to please remove it.  But season after season of heat and humidity had made a glue (or more accurately, goo) out of the thing.   It took hours of scraping with a heat gun to finally clean it all off.

I look at a new life—our granddaughter, Lucy's, for example—and I ponder the fact that apart from typical one-year-old tantrums, her soul is essentially “clean and shiny.”  New, if you will.

But then there are the rest of us.  With some miles on us.  Some dirt on us.  Some I'm-not-new-anymore all over us.  We're covered in gray guilt we cannot scrape off.  Inside, we long for a clean slate. A new slate, even.

Did you know it's yours for the asking?

The Bible says, “If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation.  The old has passed away.  Behold, the new has come” (2 Corinthians 5:17).

Here we are at the start of a new year.  Why not get that new life Jesus offers for yourself?  If you've got questions, talk to a friend now at 888-NEED-HIM.  And if you've already received Christ, let's celebrate that through His forgiveness we are made new.  Every day.

Have you ever given a toy that made you laugh?

One week before Christmas, Diana and I launched out into our day-long shopping extravaganza.  We’ve got a lot of “little people” on our list to buy for, so we headed straight for the toy section, where we were captured by the sound of two babies giggling.

My sweet Love—Baby Kisses sat on the shelf blowing kisses and giggling, apparently activated by light or motion.  My sweet Love—Giggling Baby offered her own lovely laughter.

Unable to resist, we plopped one of each into the cart, rolling off in pursuit of the rest of the gifts on our list. But every time we placed something else in the cart, we heard laughter.

In one aisle, we passed a young mom with two kids.  They all heard the giggling—and it brought them a smile.  Rolling down the check-out belt, the dolls giggled—as did our cashier.

By now I referred to the toys as “girls” and actually spoke to them (they giggled back to us as we rolled the cart across the parking lot). Laughed the entire ride home with every bump or turn.

Back home, I was sad to have to finally cover them in wrapping paper. But even after wrapping the girls—I mean dolls—they giggled.  You could actually see the colored paper bulging out the sides as the one attempted to blow kisses.

You know, I’m sure there were times when baby Jesus giggled…which made Mary giggle…which made Joseph giggle. And I wonder—I wonder—if God the Father giggled.  I have no verse or chapter to quote on any of this, mind you. 

Yet I do know this much: The angel declared, “good tidings of great joy which shall be for all people.”   Seems to me joy—and laughter—are never too far apart.

We live in dark times, to be sure.

We do not lack for objects of angst.

But should any of that—or the sum total of that—drown out the joy?  I say, no!

In fact, I think I hear…laughter!

More than half.

That's how much of my monthly paycheck our mortgage cost when Diana and I were first married.  The little two-bedroom ranch was all we could afford and there simply wasn't much left over for things like winter coats.  

As I recall, the early winter was unusually harsh, even by Chicago standards, and I needed a new coat.  What I was wearing was embarrassing to look at it, and insufficient for the three miles a day I walked in the Windy City.   Second hand stores weren't as available then, so we trudged through the mall.

I can still see its crisp outline on the rack —woolen gray and with a black collar.  The coat fit me beautifully.  The price did not.  So we put $10 down in layaway, hoping for a miracle—or at least some extra cash.

The cash never came and Christmas was looming.  I'd scraped a few dollars together for some gifts, but needed more money to buy Diana her present.   The only charge card I owned at the time was for Sears (not accepted at the coat store).

There was only one thing left to do.  Giving up on the coat was tough.  But the $10 redeemed back from layaway came in handy (remember, this was 30 years ago).

Christmas came and Diana and I had a special time, just being together.  After we exchanged gifts, Diana quietly announced there was one more.  I was told to open the living room closet.

You've guessed the story's ending.  But I promise you, you could never guess how profound a moment that was—and is—thirty years later.  Shocking kindness. Extravagant selflessness.

Three decades later, that gray coat is now worn and old.

But as it will always a have place in my heart, it will always have a place in our home.

I'll show it to you, next time you visit.

And Diana, for your many many lavish gifts of love—at Christmas and throughout the years—I say thank you and thank you again.  I love you!